


the enormity of my desire disgusts me

by smallredboy



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Dialogue, Canon-Typical Behavior, Hanahaki Disease, Hannibal Lecter Being A Weirdo, Language of Flowers, M/M, Minor Alana Bloom/Hannibal Lecter, Pining, Season/Series 02, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Vomiting, happy ending i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24920923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Hannibal heard about Hanahaki disease once. He didn't expect to catch it.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 16
Kudos: 229
Collections: Froday Flash Fiction Little & Monthly Specials 2020, Genprompt Bingo Round 17





	the enormity of my desire disgusts me

**Author's Note:**

> **fffc's 100th special:** sick  
>  **gen prompt bingo:** spring
> 
> i am very proud of this fic.
> 
> i hope you enjoy!
> 
> there's a list with the flower meanings in the end notes.

Hannibal isn't used to feeling sick. He's seldom had been ill throughout all his life, always taking good care of his body.

So when he feels something roll up his throat right after leaving Will to his own devices, his eyes widen and he retreats over to the visitors' bathroom at the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, gripping at the faucet as he throws up. It's not typical vomit, that he can make out at first; they're thick and wriggle against his throat, hacking up those long clumps of something.

It's only when it's over and that he opens his eyes that he realizes what has happened. Long, thin strands of flowers, specks of blood all over them settle in the sink. Snapdragons. They're lovely, in perfect condition, apart from the blood. He stares and coughs before looking up at the mirror.

Hanahaki disease. It was almost an urban legend amongst medical students, at least back when he was an intern in Johns Hopkins — the cases that existed were wrapped in mystery, and no real studies had been done about it. All that's known is that it was first seen in Japan, thus gaining its name, from the words that mean _flower_ and _to throw up_. It's as straightforward as that— people throw up flowers, them taking hold in their lungs. The only other antecedent that makes it even more curious and urban legend-worthy is the alleged _cause_ of such an ailment.

One-sided love.

He once thought of it as something ridiculous, something that wasn't grounded in reality. But now that he has snapdragons in the visitors' bathroom at the prison Will is in, he can't deny the fact the idea may be right. 

His interest for Will has always been keen, exciting, something new in his life — something to be happy about. He's not used to emotion, to _feeling_ as strongly as he does about Will's skills, about the curious state of Will's brain. He's never took it as something romantic, though, until this very moment.

Perhaps because he's never really felt romantic love before.

As he puts the flowers in the garbage, to be even a little bit inconspicuous about his newfound condition, he lets this go over his head. Matter of fact is that it will take a while for Will to correspond his feelings, now that he's aware of what he really is and what he's done to him. Or will he even _ever_ return them? In theory, he should. As soon as he realizes what he really is, he should put it all behind himself and fall for the man who's shown him so.

But that may not happen. Maybe Will will be swallowed alive by rejection and denial, and will never return his feelings.

In that case, he is going to die from this disease. Unless he gets surgery for it, when it gets bad.

He lets out a shaky breath and leaves the bathroom.

He has to ponder over if he can truly let himself let go of Will and what he means to him, if that means living.

* * *

The flowers change.

That's something Hannibal notices, as his hacking up of flowers gets more and more frequent. He's starting to have a bit of trouble breathing, but it's not that big of a deal. He'll be fine. He just needs Will to be out of prison so he can start the rest (which will happen, now that he's killed the judge— it's only a matter of time).

He jots it down in his journals. The first one was snapdragon, and the next time he throws up (after giving his testimony at Will's trial) it's rue flowers and narcissus. Looking up their meanings makes him feel like writing a paper about flower symbolism in patients with Hanahaki disease. Afterward, he finds himself throwing up in his bathroom after having sex with Alana. 

Alana straightens up from the noise and opens the door.

"Hannibal? Are you alright— oh God," she breathes out.

There's lobelias stained with his blood in the sink, almost overflowing it. He lets out a shaky sigh and coughs, a few petals leaving his mouth. There's enough blood to almost cover their purple hue.

"I'm — I'll be fine, Alana," he says shakily.

"I always thought it was all bullshit," she replies, leaning in to put a hand against his upper back, steadying him as he tries to calm down. "It was this big like, urban legend, y'know. Around campus."

"Yeah," he agrees. "I remember that."

"Are you… um." She clears her throat. "I do like you back, you know," she tells him.

"We are just sleeping together," he says, far blunter than he'd like to have said, and Alana pulls a face. "I apologize," he says. "I just do not have the… attachment you suspect."

"So you're throwing up flowers for someone else?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Do you… do you want to tell me who?"

He thinks of Will. Will's anger, the way he stares daggers at him through the prison bars, the way he holds himself with such (understandable) contempt. He thinks of Alana and how foolish she is, how she pushes away all Will has said about him in favor of sleeping with him.

Nausea washes over him again, and he coughs up a few more blood-stained petals.

"I would prefer not to, Alana."

She huffs. "I see," she replies. She doesn't sound very happy about him not telling her. "What are… what are you going to do about it? It's going to—"

"Yes, I know," he interrupts her. "I don't know. I am not sure… I am not sure what I will do about it. I dislike the idea of removing my ability to feel romantic love."

"I imagine," she says. Her hand is still on his back, and he pulls away so it's not anymore. "But if she doesn't ever return your feelings, then…"

"I know," he replies. He sounds quite defeated by the situation. He almost wants to deflect by making a joke about how it's not a she, but he can lead Alana on into thinking he's straight some more. He swallows. "I do not know what to do about all of this, in all honesty, Alana."

"Can I hug you?" she asks. "I'm… it's overwhelming. How… how long have you been throwing up flowers?"

He makes a noise of distress, but doesn't deepen on it. "One month," he replies. "You can hug me," he adds, like an afterthought.

She immediately hugs him.

It's two, three months left of life, if he never gets his feelings returned. The idea makes him sick with nausea, like he will throw up more flowers about it. But he doesn't — he simply moves on, rolls with the punches, hopes to God (not that he's a man for prayer) that Will will return his feelings before the clock ticks ever closer to his death.

He refuses to leave his own capacity to love in the hope that he will live for longer. Upon closer inspection of these feelings, he's disgusted — he's disgusted at the fact that he's this overwhelmed with the emotions that brings upon him. He's not used to it.

The enormity of his desire is poison upon his lungs, flowers blooming in its wake.

"I can help you clean up," Alana offers.

"No," he says. He decides to start taking the flowers and taking care of them. He's not sure someone with this disease has done so for, and he's all about experimentation. "I can do it on my own. Go back to bed, Alana, please."

She lets out a shaky sigh and walks off back to his bed.

* * *

After Will comes into his kitchen and points a gun at him, he throws up into his handkerchief.

He's gotten used to this now, started carrying a handkerchief around just in case he feels the need to hack up flowers — he's learned to do so discreetly, not make much noise as he gets more flowers out of him. He's done so during time with a patient once, put it down on the table so the flowers weren't visible. The patient didn't ask any questions.

It's almost like he's allergic to Will, with how many of the instances are brought on by seeing him or interacting with him or thinking about him. Thinking about the object of his love causes his body to react, causes him to throw up the flowers that have made themselves a home in his lungs and in his heart.

He presses the handkerchief into his mouth and gags as flowers leave his lungs and his trachea, blood coating them almost to the point of their colors not being visible. The blood has been getting worse, that he's noticed.

Tansies and bird's-foot trefoil. They're beautiful. He goes to clean them off the blood and put them in the little garden he's making of what he's thrown up, with the intention of sowing and making a beautiful bouquet, if Will is to ever return his feelings. The flowers are lovely, living and breathing — it's a mystery to him how they manage to come out so alive out of his body, out of his lungs.

Will comes back the next day, and he's dressed better than ever. His heart crawls out of his throat and he feels like he's going to throw up, so he takes his handkerchief in his hand, holds it firmly. 

"Do you plan to point a gun at me again?"

Will smiles, gives him a coquettish tilt of the head that makes him dizzy. "Not tonight."

As he walks past him, he stares at him, and he understands himself and why he's so in love he is throwing up flowers.

* * *

The last time he throws up flowers is right before he and Will go to the stable to check on Peter. After seeing all the animals gone from his place, Will looks disgusted and rattled, his face tight with hatred for the man who's ruining Peter's life. Their situation mimics their own.

As soon as Will leaves the room, he takes his handkerchief out of his mouth and he gags and retches, flowers slowly dribbling out of his mouth, saliva and blood coating them. He pulls away to look at them — arbutus and hydrangea. 

He has no chances to keep them this time around, so he lets them drop onto the floor of Peter's place. People can ask questions about the bloodied flowers at the doorstep later; he doesn't particularly care anymore.

As they go to the stable, everything is a bit of a blur. 

"Mr. Ingram," he starts as he watches him crawl out of the horse. "Might want to crawl back in there, if you know what's good for you." He steps aside to show Will, pointing a gun at him.

"Officer…" Mr. Ingram says, breathless, staring at Will as he puts his hands in the air. "I'm the victim here."

"I'm not an officer," Will growls. "I'm Peter's friend."

Mr. Ingram offers him a small smile. "Peter's confused." 

Hannibal can't help but think how much Mr. Ingram reminds him of himself, back when he wasn't in love, back when he wasn't hacking up flowers.

"I'm not," Will says. There's a pause that seems to linger on forever. "Pick up the hammer."

"Will," Hannibal says. 

"Pick — it — up."

"It won't feel the same, Will," he tells him. "It won't feel like killing me."

"It doesn't have to."

"You did the best anyone could do for Peter, but don't do this for him." He swallows. "If you're going to do this, Will, do it for yourself."

"Please don't," Mr. Ingram begs.

"You would be wise to remain silent, Mr. Ingram," Hannibal reprimands him. Before he can help himself, as Will gets ready to pull the trigger — he grabs the gun, takes him by the hand and takes the gun away from. "Will… this is not the reckoning you promised yourself," he tells him, ever so gently.

Will looks at him, eyes wide, as he takes him close, puts his hand on the back of his neck. He's sure his eyes must be brimming with love.

"With all my knowledge and intrusion, I could never entirely predict you," he whispers, close to him, too close to him. Nausea washes over him. "I can feed the caterpillar, and I can whisper through the chrysalis… but what hatches follows its own nature and is beyond me."

Will gives him a smile, and he sees a mirror of his own emotions manifest in his blue eyes.

* * *

He doesn't throw up more flowers after that. It's easier to breathe, easier to think. He's cured, with the knowledge of Will loving him back plaguing him day to day as they refuse to acknowledge it in their conversations.

He cuts up the flowers in the garden, takes them, makes them into a bouquet. He's not skilled in the art of flower arranging, and he's pretty sure that a florist wouldn't like what he made one bit, but he likes it, and he thinks Will may like it. So it's good enough for him.

He stares at the flowers for a long time, wraps them around in a ribbon. It's good enough for him.

When Will comes for his session, Hannibal draws in a breath and offers them to him.

"There were flowers in Peter's shop," is the first thing Will says as he looks at the offering, before taking it in his hands. "Bloodied, covered in saliva. They were yours, weren't they?"

He swallows. "Yes," he admits.

"Hanahaki disease." Will breathes deeply, takes in the heady scent of the flowers as he takes them in his hand. Lobelias, tansies and bird's-foot trefoil. He also bought some hydrangeas and arbutus, to finish it off with the last ones he vomited. "I always found it fascinating. You had it for me."

"Almost died because of you," he replies. A small smile makes its way onto his factions. "Could've that worked for the reckoning you promised me?"

He laughs. "Not quite," he replies. "If I had known, I wouldn't have returned your feelings, Dr. Lecter." There's a teasing lilt to his voice when he jokes that he would've let him die of this disease. 

It is a quite welcomed notion.

"You cannot control in respect of whom you fall in love," he replies, leaning in to kiss his cheek.

As soon as he pulls away, Will pulls him in and kisses him, hard, hungry.

The bouquet falls to the floor, and Hannibal learns to not particularly mind that, as long as he has Will's lips on him.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a list for the flower meanings I used on this fic.
>
>> Hydrangea - Gratitude for being understood; heartlessness
>> 
>> Arbutus - You are the only one I love
>> 
>> Snapdragon - Deception, graciousness
>> 
>> Bird's-foot trefoil - Revenge
>> 
>> Lobelia - Malevolence
>> 
>> Narcissus - Unrequited love, selfishness
>> 
>> Rue - Regret, sorrow, repentance
>> 
>> Tansy - I declare war on you  
> 
> 
> Follow my [writing tumblr](http://smallredb0y.tumblr.com/%22), and please leave a kudo and a comment if you liked reading this!


End file.
